I only partially succeeded, having tracked the deployment of a Palmetto State military unit as far as Kuwait but ultimately rolling into Iraq's capital city at dawn with a heavily armed convoy of National Guardsmen from Kansas.

But what I may have missed in highlighting the contributions of South Carolinians, I made up for in gaining a better understanding of the significance of National Guard and Reserve soldiers in the broader war effort.

RON MENCHACA/THE POST AND COURIER

After convoying to Baghdad from Kuwait, the 2/130 Field Artillery Battalion of the Kansas National Guard arrives at a former Iraq military barracks near Baghdad International Airport. Though the area still showed signs of damage from coalition bombings in the capital city last year, the barracks had been largely repaired and the soldiers were pleasantly surprised that they might have rooms to live in during their time in Iraq. This picture of Saddam Hussein was one of a few remaining reminders of the old regime.

National Guard Sgt. Darren Meyers, of Horton, Kan., scans the horizon while manning a machine gun. On the road to Baghdad, gunners have little protection from bullets or the bitter cold. In Kansas, Meyers makes a living driving an ice cream delivery truck.

Combined, these units could soon make up the bulk of the Operation Iraqi Freedom fighting force, if they do not already.

As a former active-duty service member, I had regarded National Guard and Reserve soldiers as second-class warriors, mere civilians who occasionally don fatigues and play with guns.

I was skeptical of their preparation and commitment to the war. I was wrong.

Before the trip, I knew nothing of Kansas other than what I'd gleaned from watching the "Wizard of Oz" on television as a child. I certainly had never heard of Horton or Severance, hometowns of some of the unit's men.

But inside of a few hours of meeting the Kansas soldiers for the first time, I entrusted my life to them, their weapons and their training.

They carried me safely through a war zone into the heart of Saddam Hussein's former regime. Along the way, they told me about their families and jobs, their hopes and dreams.

I even managed to find some South Carolina connections in the unit, including an officer whose brother lives on James Island.

I'll soon return to Kuwait, where the National Guard soldiers from South Carolina with whom I had been traveling are preparing to make a similar trek north into Iraq. For what it's worth, I'll tell them about mine.

RON MENCHACA/THE POST AND COURIER

Army National Guard Sgt. Darren Meyers, of Horton, scans the horizon with a SAW machine gun. On the road to Baghdad, vehicle gunners such as Meyers have little shielding from bullets or bitter cold as they protect their convoys. In Kansas, he makes a living driving a Schwan's Ice Cream delivery truck.

Creative soldiering

Hummers and other vehicles belonging to the 2/130 Field Artillery Battalion of the Kansas National Guard looked as if they'd just rolled out of an episode of "Monster Garage," a television show in which expert grease monkeys and builders transform ordinary cars and trucks into machines fit for a "Mad Max" movie.

The military is outfitting its vehicles with armor, but many units have only a small number of their vehicles protected so far.

Soldiers in the unit who work as welders back home got right to work on "up-armoring" dozens of vehicles that would take them to Iraq.

The results weren't pretty, but pretty wasn't the goal, Hinkley said.

"The perception (of the enemy) is if you got guns and you are armored, we are leaving you alone."

This is sometimes how the National Guard and Reserve forces operate. While the active-duty military can be constrained by its own rigidity and rules, civilian soldiers fall back on the practicality and flexibility they apply in their nonmilitary jobs and businesses.

They trade with other units for parts and equipment, and when items can't be found or ordered, they invent substitutes.

A cramped camp

I met Hinkley only the night before the convoy was to pull out of Camp Virginia in Kuwait. I told him the sad story that began with me missing a flight from Georgia to Kuwait because of a last-minute paperwork problem:

After the 175th Maintenance Company out of Fort Jackson flew without me, I located another South Carolina unit willing to give me a ride.

RON MENCHACA/THE POST AND COURIER

U.S. Army Maj. Doug Hinkley, executive officer of the 2/130 Field Artillery Battalion from the Kansas National Guard, addresses his soldiers from atop a Humvee as the unit prepares to convoy to Baghdad.

I spent several days with the 1052nd Transportation Company from Kingstree as it made its way from Georgia to Germany to Kuwait.

I was with them as we frantically tried to find our baggage at night in the midst of a chilling sandstorm.

Our unwelcoming arrival at Camp Virginia had been made all the more discouraging by the relative comfort of the camp we had just left near the Kuwait airport.

If Camp Wolverine is the Hilton of tent cities, Camp Virginia is a cheap motel. Some 12,000 soldiers from around the world were cramped into this one camp, which just a couple of months ago had less than half as many soldiers.

Still, it was impressive to see firsthand the massive changeover under way in the Middle East, as new troops and supplies pour into the region to replace units that have been in the country since the war began.

The reality of such a large movement, however, is that the camp lacked the facilities to support all the troops adequately. Soldiers waited in line for hours to call home or eat.

Male and female troops of all ages, ranks and service status waited together, and Americans stood in lines alongside coalition forces from Japan, Nicaragua, Poland and elsewhere.

Cpl. Benjamin Williams, a James Island resident with the 1052nd, was formerly on active duty in the Marines and Army and served in Somalia and the Gulf War.

"In Desert Storm, we had to put everything together. Now, everything is set up for you," said Williams, 33.

To him, that's not necessarily a good thing. "I like it the other way because you are alert. Here, you forget you are in a combat zone."

For good or ill, the camp would be only temporary.

Or so we all thought.

When I learned that the 1052nd would be delayed in its training in Kuwait and would not head north for a couple more weeks, I knew I had to get out of Camp Virginia.

By the time I found Hinkley, his unit was set to head north the next morning. I asked for a ride. He sized me up and asked if I had a Kevlar helmet and bulletproof vest.

I did.

Even though I would be traveling as an embedded reporter, the equipment assumed that the enemy would make no such distinction.

The one thing I lacked -- heavy bulletproof panels for my vest -- the major quickly acquired from a captain who owed him a favor.

Heading out

The sun sets in northern Kuwait as the military convoy stops at a staging area for the night. The next morning, the vehicles rolled into Iraq.

"We are a mean-looking battalion, not to be messed with," Hinkley shouted from atop the hood of a Humvee.

"I don't think this unit could be more ready to cross the border."

It could have been a setting for a coach's pep talk before a championship football game, but in Iraq, losing means dying.

The chaplain followed next, invoking the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001.

"Remember 9-11? Every one of you in the service wanted to reach out and touch someone. Now look where you are."

"Where" was headed for a long stretch of highway between Kuwait and Baghdad, a path littered with IEDs, or improvised explosive devices, placed by enemies of the U.S. occupation in Iraq.

As the convoy prepared to head out, a lieutenant showed me a message on his onboard computer. It was a warning that an IED had just been discovered along the route.

Finally on the road, the blowing sand stung my face like a thousand needles. The equipment onboard rattled and shook. The tires settled into a steady rhythm.

A lieutenant pointed out that the rubber is Goodyear, made at a plant in Topeka, Kan., where he is a supervisor.

Passing convoys kicked up thick clouds of sand and dust.

We drove blind for a few seconds and emerged onto rolling dunes.

Some of the convoys were headed home.

"You should have seen their faces," Hinkley said of a returning group of soldiers he saw earlier.

We reached our first rest point without incident.

There's a special chow hall at this camp where the servers wear bowties and soldiers eat the "last supper" before crossing into Iraq.

After dinner, a Catholic chaplain in a white robe led communion Mass in a sand and gravel lot.

That night, we slept under the stars and next to our vehicles, just three miles from the Iraqi border. I enjoyed a cigar with the major before drifting off to sleep.

Crossing the border

First call came at 3 a.m., the safest time to cross, I'm told.

Our driver, Sgt. Keith Courtin, read through the rules of engagement one last time. He drove almost the entire convoy with his M-16 wedged in front of the steering wheel, muzzle out the window.

Things got off to a frantic start when the lead element of our convoy missed a turnoff. I immediately thought of former POW Jessica Lynch and the deadly wrong turn that her unit took.

In our case, the element quickly realized its mistake and linked back up with the rest of the convoy.

Crossing into Iraq was unceremonious. The spot where we estimated the actual border to be was marked by nothing more than berms, but the countryside steadily turned from sand to green valley vegetation.

Sheepherders were ubiquitous.

Our gunners, Meyers and Spc. William Small, neighbors back in Horton, took turns standing in the back of the Humvee behind a SAW machine gun. The cold wind was merciless, and they switched out regularly to keep from freezing.

Oncoming cars drove aggressively as if aiming right for us. A couple of times, the gunners came close to opening fire.

We got mixed looks from Iraqis walking along the road.

Men waved occasionally. Some gave a thumbs up. Boys made scooping motions with their hands, signaling they wanted us to toss them MREs.

Soldiers did, but they are not supposed to.

"That's going to be one of the hardest things for the soldiers -- to not throw them MREs," Hinkley said.

That night, we slept on Iraqi soil about an hour south of Baghdad. We wanted to press on and arrive a day early, but orders from the top held us at a fuel point.

As the soldiers filtered out of their vehicles, word reached us at the front of the convoy that some of the soldiers saw tracer rounds. They were unsure, however, and decided not to return fire.

An inspection of the vehicles turned up no signs of damage.

The major was skeptical that the Iraqis would use illuminated bullets, but he said an isolated spray of rifle fire, not unusual along our route, could not be ruled out.

Parting ways

Once in Baghdad, the soldiers eagerly awaited a glimpse of their destination, which for most would be home for the next year or more. It turned out to be better than most expected: a row of former Iraqi military barracks near Baghdad International Airport.

Though surrounded by bombed-out buildings left over from the beginning of the campaign last year, the barracks had been fixed up and even had private balconies.

The big hit, of course, was the porcelain toilets, something soldiers in the field rarely see.

I said my goodbyes and thanked my Midwestern escorts for getting me to Baghdad safely. I wanted to think that the major had been right about his armored vehicles and that our would-be attackers had simply backed off when they caught sight of them. "

Reprinted with the permission of The Charleston, S.C., Post and Courier.